


The Tomb

by kriadydragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, Horror, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason they say the Valley is cursed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 [Merlin horror Fest](http://merlin-horror.livejournal.com/).

Birds didn't sing in the Valley of the Fallen Kings. The thought sounded like a nursery rhyme, the kind parents would make up to warn their children away from something vile, and it would've made a good one as far as Merlin was concerned. Of all the things to dislike about the Valley, from its reputation to the way the magic of it pressed on Merlin like a wet blanket on a cold day, were he to be asked to name the one thing he disliked most about the Valley, it would be the utter lack of birdsong. 

Where the regular background chatter of the forest was absent, danger was. Everyone knew this, small children not yet five years old knew this. Merlin had known this at the even younger age of four, when his mother had pulled him frantically away from their yearly berry picking and back to the house. When he had asked her with childish petulance why they had to leave, she had simply stated, as though it explained everything, “The forest has gone quiet.”

Which, of course, had meant next to nothing to his young mind far too focused on berry pie. Not until he heard the roar – so loud, so long, like nothing he had ever heard before turning his blood to ice and his body a juddering mess. No one had ever discovered where the roar had come from and what it had been, but Merlin had learned without his mother ever having to explain it that when the forest fell dead silent, you run or be dead yourself.

A silent forest was not a good thing, and the Valley was silent all the bloody _time_. How anyone could listen to that perfect silence and continue to scoff at the notion of the Valley being cursed boggled Merlin mercilessly. You'd have to be mad to think all this quiet normal. Not even the wind could quite bring itself to rattle the leaves and shake the branches, nature itself as still as if holding its breath, waiting for what it knew to be the inevitable. It was unnerving, foreboding, a constant finger of dread tracing down the spine. It was--

“Merlin, will you please inform King has-no-taste-in-anything-whatsoever what a _joke_ minstrels are.”

Merlin flinched from his thoughts and looked up to see Gwaine looking back, frowning and expectant. 

“Wha..? Minstrels? What? What minstrels?”

“The one our dear _queen_ wishes to hire for the banquet,” Gwaine replied with a pointed scowl aimed Arthur's way. Arthur, positioned relatively next to Gwaine and a little ahead, did what he always did when Gwaine was being boisterously unhappy with him – ignore it.

“I'm not hiring jugglers,” Arthur said dismissively. “Last time my father hired jugglers it... wasn't pleasant.”

“They had him stand in the middle while they tossed rotten eggs around him,” Merlin said with a touch of glee. He smiled. “It didn't end well.”

“Merlin!” the king growled. He scowled Merlin's way and Merlin did what he always did when the king was being unhappy with _him_ \- also ignore it.

“But who was the one cleaning up the mess after?” Merlin went on. He hooked his thumb at himself. “Me. I spend all that time filling your bath and what do you do? You fall asleep then nearly punch me in the face when I tried to wake you. I'm with Arthur on the minstrels.”

“So you're okay with a perfectly good meal going to waste for some flowery bits of poetry sung off-key,” Gwaine tried.

Merlin barked a laugh. “A perfectly good meal I only get to eat if the maids don't toss the leftovers to the pigs! Gwaine, I'm sorry, but when it comes to banquets, don't go griping to the man who has only cold stew to look forward to.”

Percival nudged Merlin good-naturedly in the arm with his elbow. “Don't worry, Merlin, I'll save you some.”

Now it was Elyan who barked a laugh, which then prompted Percival to back his horse up and put him within reach for a good cuff to the head. Elyan ducked it easily.

“The king could always hire poets instead,” Leon said with a rare smirk. Since serving under Arthur rather than his father, Leon had developed quite the sense of humor, and chuckled lightly when everyone chorused a very emphatic “No!”

A throaty rumble of thunder ended the matter without resolve. Everyone looked up at a sky gone suddenly dark. That was the other problem with the Valley – it was about as predictable as a sorcerer with a grudge. Arthur no sooner ordered them forward quickly to seek shelter when the winds gusted and the heavens parted, dumping what had to be an ocean of water onto their heads and drenching them to the bone within the span of two heartbeats. 

The rain was like a silver wall making it next to impossible to see, their only guide the path directly in front of them, a path already buried beneath the growing water.

The Valley of the Kings had many paths, many trails, and after the incident that was Aggravaine's treachery, Merlin wanted to say, with conviction, that they had traveled every one. But that would be like ignoring the silence of the forest. The Valley of the Kings was a place of magic, and a place of magic had its own rules, rules to hide all its dirty little secrets. 

Merlin knew something was off the moment he felt his weight shift ever-so-slightly to one side, a sensation that only happened when his horse was taking a sharp turn. Merlin knew this path, knew that there shouldn't have been any turns, not this early on and not so abruptly. But that they were on a new path wasn't confirmed until he heard the hollow clatter of horse hooves galloping over a wooden bridge where there were no bridges, and felt his weight gather at the back which only happened when going up hill, except there shouldn't be any hills. This wasn't right, but anything he had to say about it was swallowed by the thunder and rain.

Hooves splashed through mud and water, rain sluiced down Merlin's back and poured from his clothes. Drops of it stung his face like tiny nettles. The thunder ripped through the air like a dragon's roar vibrating him to the bone marrow. A sharp pain pushed through Merlin's chest as though he'd been punched by a gauntleted hand. It was cold and sharp, this pain, doubling him over with a muffled cry of alarm. 

Then it stopped – the rain stopped, the thunder continued to growl and the pain, though tempered down to a dull ache, throbbed in his breastbone. There was a brief moment in which Merlin thought for sure they had stumbled through some magical portal. Where ever they were, it was dark, humid but dry, both musty and smelling heavy with dust, and everything echoed loudly like it would in a cave; except were they in a cave they would have had to wade through a stream, first, and he recalled only mud and a hill.

Then his eyes adjusted enough for him to make out, not a cave, but a chamber – a big, impossibly massive chamber a forest of pillars thicker than the thickest oak and so tall they seemed to be swallowed by the dark that was the ceiling. He could still hear the rain pounding the muddy earth. Turning, he saw the entrance to his “portal” - an ordinary door looking half-solid from the sheets of rain. 

“What is this place?” Elyan's voice echoed, even hushed with awe and trepidation as it was. Merlin looked ahead through the pillars but the darkness beyond refused to give up its secrets. 

“Maybe it's just me,” said Gwaine, “but this looks a might different from the caves we normally take shelter in.”

“That's because it isn't,” said Arthur. He hopped from his horse, landing with a wet slop onto the dusty floor as he craned his neck to take the massive chamber in. “We must have taken a different path. But shelter is shelter so let's not question it.” He stared out of the doorway wearing a grim expression. “Better than being out there.”

Merlin, shivering in his drenched clothes, rubbed at his incessantly aching chest. It felt like he'd been struck, and he would have passed it off as some twig or pine cone thrown at him by the wind except he didn't recall feeling any actual, physical contact, only the pain. A quick check down his shirt revealed only pale skin where there should have been at least red. A discomfort that abrupt and sharp should have left some mark. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said shortly, snapping him back to the here and now. He looked up to see the others dismounted and either holding candles or fishing them from their packs. That they were required to carry at least one candle had become a sad testimony to how often they found themselves stuck in caves, or old castles, or strange chambers, and nothing to use as a torch within immediate reach.

There was a time, long ago, when Merlin had been of the opinion that if you had to get stuck in a place far from home that an old abandoned castle beat a cave any day. Castles had rooms to hide in, discarded weapons to use, old furniture to burn, not to mention plenty of back doors to choose from should you need to make a hasty exit. Then came the situation with the Lamia, and old abandoned castles had become like tombs in the making. 

Merlin had lost count of all the miserable experiences he'd survived but of all of them – besides the incident with the questing beast and having had to poison Morgana to save the kingdom, the Lamia continued to haunt Merlin's nightmares even to this day. Strange magical beasts he could handle; his friends – noble knights sworn to protect – turning against him, threatening him, cornering him, looking at him with such... _anger_ and intolerance... 

Give him magical monsters any day over _that_. And give him caves over castles and chambers.

Percival stayed with the horses while the rest of them spread out through the chamber, hunting down any leaf pile or twig they could use to build a fire, even a small one. There were plenty of piles to choose from huddled up against the pillars, pushed there over the years by the wind, and Merlin's arms and chest were itching from all the twigs and leaves poking through his sopping clothes as he gathered what he could. The chamber also seemed to go on forever, the darkness eternally shrinking back from the weak candle glow yet never reaching an end. It was always there, always hovering, always waiting.

Merlin's heart thudded hard.

“Hey, come look at this!” came Gwaine's excited voice. Merlin breathed out in relief. An excited Gwaine sounding that chipper was not a Gwaine being mauled by whatever was hiding in the shadows. Merlin hurried forward, more tension unknotting itself from his chest when he spotted the distant yellow dots of the candles. 

Then his foot collided with something hard and unyielding. He yelped, stumbling back while juggling his pile of debris and candle to see what was accosting him this time.

A pew. A simple, wooden, half-rotten pew warped and cracking with age. Merlin lifted his candle enough for its light to spill down on several more pews, two on each side. Merlin moved through them down the center aisle to join the lights gathered on the other side.

Gwaine had found the end of the chamber. 

There were twenty pews in all, ten on one side, ten on the other, facing a long stone alter, its only adornment its tiered surface of three levels ending at the marble smooth top. But even unadorned it was lovely, the marble white and gray like storm clouds woven through a winter sky and glittering with bits of quartz. It was smooth, not a seam to be found except where the tiered top met the base and the base met the floor. 

It was on the other side of the alter that the chamber _finally_ ended. It was also the only source of any ornamentation, with two base relief carvings of either knights or kings, the distance between them about the length of the alter, like stone guards standing watch over the congregation as whoever stood at the alter preached, and woe be to any who didn't listen or else suffer the knights peeling away from the wall and cutting them down with their great stone swords. 

Merlin smiled briefly at his own imagination, though it was a tremulous smile. 

Gwaine, who had once confessed to not being burdened with an overactive imagination, chuckled heartily. 

“A cathedral. A bloody cathedral. Well that explains our good fortune, I think.”

“Depending on what was worshipped here,” Leon said darkly. Leon just being Leon, Merlin wanted to say, except Arthur was looking just as unhappy. His focus was on the alter. He circled it, leaning in close to study it, and the more he saw the more he didn't like despite there being little to see.

“Come on,” he said. “We can build a fire on the other side of the pews, keep it away from the door and the wind.”

They piled their leaves and twigs well beyond the old pews. Merlin took mental note that no one (no one as in namely not-superstitious-at-all Arthur) had yet to suggest breaking the pews down for wood. Any other chamber or castle it wouldn't have warranted even a mention. This place, however...

There were some places in this world that, no matter how long it had been since anyone had stepped foot in them, demanded that you not alter them in anyway. Places, whether places of worship or not, that seemed to watch you, waiting for you to give it an excuse to strike you down at the smallest provocation. Places that to touch anything, change anything, would wake something long dormant and terrible. 

This place was one of those places, Merlin didn't need his magic to tell him that. But what made it worse was that his magic _was_ telling him _something_ \- something that wasn't good. Not only was there the ache in his chest, but the wet, cold feeling that had nothing to do with his soaked clothes pressing on him like a full-body weight, no longer like a blanket but like hands shoving and jostling his soul. 

“Merlin!” Arthur barked.

Merlin jumped. “Sire!”

Arthur was standing across from him on the other side of the debris pile, arms folded and face a mask of flickering disapproval in the candlelight.

“Merlin,” Arthur said in mock sweetness. “I know the dark is big and scary but it can't go away if you don't light a fire.”

Merlin blinked. “Oh, right, sorry.” He touched his candle to the pile. “Because apparently I'm the only one capable of lighting anything. Lords forbid anyone else should do it, oh, no. Might singe your precious fingers if you did.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Gwaine laughed and clapped Merlin on the back. The fire picked up momentum, pushing back some of the dark.

Once Leon had fetched Percival and the horses it was time to strip down, the most hated part of being caught out in the rain and stuck in a chamber/cave/whatever for Merlin. Saddles were removed, blankets stretched out on the dusty ground, pack-contents set out on the blankets, followed by outer layers of clothing – outer layers for the knights, who had been protected by their doublets and armor. Though Merlin should have at least been a little protected by his jacket, the rain had pounded through it, and that meant stripping down to his undershorts. 

It would always be awkward – five burly men trained and conditioned to take down entire squadrons and one skinny little manservant more knobby bones than muscle, all huddled as close as possible to the fire. On the plus side, at least Arthur had long ago exhausted his supply of “skinny as a little girl” jokes and “your ribs are going to stab someone, _Mer_ lin” remarks.

“So why've we never come across this place before?” Gwaine (not one to be bothered by poky ribs and so sitting next to Merlin) asked. “We've taken so many paths through this valley I would have thought we've seen all it has to offer by now.”

“I've heard it said you could send a thousand men to map the place and still not know all its secrets,” said Elyan. “Father used to tell us all kinds of stories about the Valley, how it had once been neutral territory until some great rebellion.”

“Betrayal,” said Arthur, almost absently, it seemed, as though lost in thought and only partially listening to whatever was being said. He had been rolling a twig between his thumb and finger, and tossed it into the hungry flames. “It was a betrayal. Ages back a great alliance was formed between... I think it may have been five kingdoms, maybe more. It was in this valley that it was made, a promise sealed with the blood of the five kings that they would rule as one and rule fairly. Peace reigned in the land for several generations, only to be ended by treachery. The later kings declared war on each other. Blood was spilled in this land. It is said all five kings fell on this very valley and the curse was born.”

“Valley of the Fallen Kings indeed,” said Gwaine. “What was the treachery?”

Arthur shrugged. “The usual, I believe. Small grievances, lust for power, lust for land. Each king had what they believed to be a justifiable reason for breaking the truce.” He took a deep breath and released it sharply. “In fact, this may very well not be a cathedral at all but a tomb. A tomb of a fallen king. The question is, which king?”

“Does it matter?” asked Percival.

“Some of the kings were said to be worse than others,” Arthur replied.

Merlin narrowed his eyes. Being a bit of an expert at lies and withholding the details (which he wasn't remotely proud of except when Arthur accused him of being a terrible liar) he knew a blatant omission of facts when he heard one. Arthur also seemed uneasy. Arthur never seemed uneasy. He was either determined or trying so hard not to show he was uneasy that he came off as sarcastic and extra prattish, but never completely uneasy. 

This tomb was making him nervous. But as much as Merlin wanted to ask him about it he knew it would only result in name calling and accusations of superstition. If Arthur was prattish when nervous he was twice as prattish when he was called out on it. Besides, Merlin had no doubts that Arthur was anxious to leave this place and have nothing more to do with it, because Merlin was sharing in that anxiety. 

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur was leaning with his shoulder against the wall just inside the door, angled enough to stare at the wall of rain since it was impossible to stare through it and not get splashed. Having never been a man who paid much attention to the rain, he couldn't say for sure that he'd never witnessed a storm this heavy, nor this _solid_. But there was a... the only word that came to mind was _presence_... a presence about this storm that wouldn't allow Arthur to wave it aside as a freak act of nature that sometimes happened, a presence that provoked him to do a little calculating.

They had left Lord Godfrey's estate well before the sun had come up, having stayed an extra day after helping Lord Godfrey deal with the ruffians stealing crops from his vassals. They had needed the rest. Arthur, not wanting to worry his wife and the other lords, had sent word on ahead of their intended arrival. They knew Arthur and his knights were supposed to return today. Gwen knew that he liked to get an early start when it came to making a journey. Arthur and the knights had reached the valley just as the sky had turned gold, when the sun was barely free of the horizon, and once the valley was reached home would only be a good five hours away on horseback, give or take.

Putting it all together, it was far too soon for Camelot to have a reason to worry and send a search party, and any delay would be blamed on the storm. But that was only if help was actually needed, which it wasn't. It was just a storm, after all, one that would soon be a distant memory of annoyance the moment it stopped and they were able to travel again. Arthur didn't even know why he was even considering the need for help. They were fine, perfectly fine.

Arthur glanced back into the chamber, an involuntary act, one he assured himself was just habit to ascertain everyone's condition and _not_ to make sure they were still all right. But from where Arthur stood the fire was little more than a willow th'wisp suspended in the dark, his knights and manservant flitting shadows darting across the soft ball of light. They had spread out – Arthur and the knights to see what the chamber had to offer. Merlin had remained by the fire, still trying to coax the chill out of his skin while waiting for his clothes to dry. 

Lords but this storm must be strange, because rather than find reasons to lay the blame for Merlin's current state on the man himself, he was actually feeling _bad_ for Merlin. He had seemed so abnormally pale, even for him, had kept rubbing his chest as though it pained him, and the last thing they needed trapped as they were by this storm was one of them falling ill. And it would be Merlin who fell ill. The man had a propensity for fainting without cause, for goodness sake. 

Soft footfalls alerted Arthur to the fact that he would soon be observing the rain with company, as well as in whose company it would be.

“Do you think it was wise,” Leon said, “Not telling them the entire story?”

Arthur shrugged. “Does it really matter?”

Leon glanced back with a slight frown. “Gwaine's taken too much interest in the tomb. Arthur, we don't even know whose tomb it is.” 

The tightness to Leon's voice made Arthur study him carefully. “If I didn't know any better I would say that's making you nervous,” he said, not as an accusation, but for confirmation. Leon was a man prone to wariness, not to discomfiture and especially not over old abandoned tombs and ancient stories.

“I won't deny it,” Leon said easily, inciting one of Arthur's eyebrows to curve in a high arch. Those few times Leon was uneasy, neither did he confess to it. 

“I've heard the story's details as well as you, sire. I know the tale of the kings as well as you do; what some... what some of them had been _accused_ of. Perhaps this is merely a tomb of no consequence but if it isn't, perhaps it would be best to prepare the others...”

Arthur shook his head. “It would only inspire unnecessary fear. The moment this storm ends, we leave this place, then it won't matter whose tomb this is because we will never set foot in it again.”

Leon dipped his head in acquiescence, then tossed another glance over his shoulder into he darkness. “If we can't leave?” he said. 

“They're just stories, Leon,” Arthur said shortly. “Tales to frighten children and keep them from wandering off the marked paths through the valley.”

Now it was Leon studying him carefully. “Do you believe?” Also not an accusation. Also looking for confirmation.

And since Leon had answered him in all honesty, Arthur was compelled to do the same.

“I don't know.”

Leon nodded, moving away to no doubt discourage Gwaine's curiosity in the tomb and leave Arthur to this thoughts, to wonder if, maybe, he should have said more.

No, there was no point, because they were going to leave this place and any further information would only end in his annoyance when Merlin demanded more details. Lords, the idiot could be blindingly superstitious at times and it was difficult enough traveling through the Valley, his manservant's head a perpetual swivel as he searched for dangers that nine times out of ten were never there. If not careful such pointless wariness could prove contagious, encouraging his men to draw their weapons if so much as a leaf clattered across the floor, and a jumpy knight was a dangerous knight, especially where there were so many shadows. 

Arthur thought of the tomb – that quiet, unadorned coffin of heavy stone hidden in the dark. Cold air pressed against his back like a hand trying to get his attention. For a moment, spanning the length of a single heartbeat, Arthur was certain that were he to turn around he would see that tomb even through the thick shadows, as though it were waiting for him. As though it had always been waiting. 

He was compelled, in that heartbeat of a moment, to turn, to look, to prove himself wrong. It was stupid, silly, pointless, yet he felt his neck-muscles tense, felt them pull his head to the side despite his resistance. 

What did it matter if he turned around? It would only be a glance, confirmation of just how silly he was being.

It mattered. It mattered so much. He didn't know why, he only knew, as if he had always known deep down inside, like an instinct. He _mustn't turn around._

It was at that very moment, as his neck fought against the unseen force pulling his eyes to the dark, that the rain decided to stop.

~oOo~

The bridge was gone, buried under a river that had swelled to the size of a pond. Arthur had Percival take the longest branch he could find and use it to gage the actual depth. He didn't strike anything solid until the water was up to his elbow. Neither did he have hold of the branch for long when the strong currents swept it away.

“As long as there's no further rain then the river should go down,” said Gwaine, ever the optimist. 

But at its current depth the river wouldn't reach a level in which crossing would be safe until tomorrow, tonight at the earliest, and like hell Arthur was dragging his men through the Valley in pitch black. 

He wanted to say this was a good thing, that now they had time to let their clothes continue to dry, which they needed now more than ever with the diminished temperatures. It wasn't cold, but it was cool enough that to endure it in moist garments would leave them susceptible to illness. Even in just their mostly-dry underthings they were shivering, and Merlin – wrapped in a blanket as he was – was chattering his teeth, he was shaking so hard.

Arthur looked up the gentle incline that had led them to the narrow ravine ending at the tomb. From the outside, it look like nothing more than a cliff-face, rough and untouched by man save for the solitary door gaping dark and demanding. Arthur thought he could feel that dark, like cold hands reaching for him, and he was glad he was shivering enough to cover up the chill coursing down his spine. 

But there was nothing for it. They were going to have to spend the night there. Arthur and Leon exchanged unsettled looks.

They headed back to the tomb. Arthur passed through the door, and cold tickled down his back like drops of ice water. Then Merlin began coughing – dry, chest-deep hacking that had him momentarily doubled over. Gwaine clapped him hard on the back until Merlin waved him off irritably. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Merlin, you had better not be getting sick.”

“Yes, Arthur, because falling ill is a choice, not an act of nature,” Merlin said hotly. “I'm not... I think. I was just choking.”

“On what, air? Lords, Merlin, if you're not tripping on air you're being strangled by it. It's a miracle you're able to breathe at all.”

Arthur didn't need to see Merlin's withering stare, he could feel it burrowing holes into the back of his head. Percival snorted, Gwaine chuckled and in that very moment it was easy to forget their current situation. Gwaine announced, nonchalant, “Fire's out of hand,” and rushed over to stomp out those bits of burning leaves and twigs that had escaped the mother pile. It was nothing serious, not in a chamber made of stone and their belongings still damp, but it was a nuisance. Arthur opened his mouth to order Merlin to go out and fetch some rocks to form a fire ring, then he remembered Merlin's current state of dress.

“I'll get some stones,” Percival volunteered without prompting, grabbing his cloak to use to carry the rocks. Elyan volunteered to take the horses to the river to drink, Leon set about adding more debris to the dying fire, Merlin began to organize their supplies into a camp only for Gwaine to plunk him down by the fire with a hand on the shoulder and do it himself... albeit according to Merlin's very specific directions. 

Arthur searched the dark, suppressing shudder after shudder and suddenly hating the fact that they had separated even if they hadn't separated far. 

He then found himself wandering to the tomb – a black box darker than the darkness as if carved from obsidian. He brushed his fingers over its marble surface and rubbed the gritty dust between his fingers. It was thick, the dust; the stone most likely having never felt human touch for centuries, the lid never opened since the day it had been dragged over the coffin. 

_Arthur_.

“Hm?” Arthur said absently. The stone even smelled of dust. He imagined how it must have been when first made, gleaming and glittering like ice and just as cold.

 _Arthur_.

“What!” Arthur snapped. He whirled around. 

There was no one there – not within range to whisper in his ear. 

Arthur moved quickly away from the tomb, back toward the light of the fire. He wasn't scared – of course not – he simply didn't trust this place. Too dark, too echoing, too many means by which an enemy could use this place against them.

Arthur heard laughter. He forced himself to ignore it.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

Percival did not consider himself, nor was he considered, a man burdened by the unnecessary aggravation of thinking that inanimate objects could spite him. But he was thinking it now. The ravine ended well before the edge of the river, the path widening and the woodland on either side accessible. And, yet, for being located between a cliff wall and a river he was having next to no bloody luck finding any sizable stones to use to form a fire ring. He'd found a handful of small rocks, three smooth stones about the size of his hand and that was it.

The search was also taking him deeper into the woods, further from the others, which he was even less happy about. A task as simple as gathering stones shouldn't take this long, nor take him out this far. 

Percival also had never considered himself a superstitious man. Then again, neither had he taken the time to sit down and actually ponder whether he was superstitious or not. He had grown up beyond the borders of Camelot, in a realm where magic lived free, and as long as you left those who used magic alone, they left you alone. 

Then he came to Camelot, where magic wasn't always so kind. 

And yet neither had that darker side to magic change Percival's perspective of it. It was a tool, and like a tool its purpose depended on the one wielding it. He didn't hate magic. He didn't fear enchantments, nor places rumored to be cursed. Magic simply was, so there was no point in fearing or hating it since it accomplished nothing. The same went for places and people and creatures. The only exception had been Cenred, who had provoked Percival's fear as a child, then his hate when he had destroyed his village. 

Hate and fear had to be earned. 

Which this place seemed to be doing a fine job of. Percival was not one to jump to the conclusion of magic being the source of all their woes but right now he was willing to make an exception. There was something about this place that wouldn't let him brush it off as yet just another section of the Valley of the Fallen Kings that may or may not be cursed. It wasn't the storm, nor the flooding, nor his inability to find the needed rocks. It was more... Percival wasn't quite sure as to how to explain it. 

Percival found a round, smooth stone the length of his hand and width of his palm. He hefted it in his hand, testing its weight although it wasn't necessary, then added it to his small pile in his cloak.

This place, he thought, if it were a person it would be like Cenred. 

No, that wasn't right. Cenred had had too much of a presence, imposing and terrible, fueling Percival's hate even when he wasn't there. More like Morgana, then, or her sister Morgause, shadows within shadows you didn't know were there until it was too late, a cold breath on the back of your neck, then a knife in the base of your spine. 

Percival picked up another rock with a sigh. Now he was exaggerating, something else he wasn't prone to. He didn't understand why he didn't just come out and say it – this place was wrong. So wrong it was making him wax bloody poetic about it, as well as making his simple task unending. 

Percival figured he had enough rocks. The circle didn't need to be perfect, it needed to keep the fuel source from scattering. It was also starting to get dark. He turned around, pointing himself back the way he had come. With the river on one side and the cliff wall on the other, he couldn't have gotten lost even if he'd been blindfolded.

A scream ripped through the forest. Percival whirled around, his cloak full of rocks clattering together.

“Hello!” he called. Only the babbling river answered him. 

“Must have been a bird,” he muttered to himself. Birds could be oddly human-like in their calls. A friend of Percival's had even told him that there was a land where birds could actually talk, not that Percival believed--

Another scream. Long. Desperate. Tapering off into a low moan of defeat.

“Hello! Are you in need of help!” Percival bellowed. But there was only the river, the wind and Percival's heavy breathing. 

“Help me,” said a voice, small, timid - the voice of a frightened child. 

Percival turned around again and his face impacted with something soft, warm and wet. He looked up and gasped harshly when he saw the body hanging upside down by its feet from a tree, arms dangling like a broken puppet.

The head was gone, and so was its skin. 

Percival staggered back, drawing his sword, arming himself against whatever could have done something so hideous. 

“Perc?” someone said.

Percival spun on his heels, his sword swinging. It clanged against the steel of a second sword.

“Perc!” Elyan yelped, flinching back when steel rang against the steel of his own blade. “What the bleeding hell, man!”

Percival, breathing hard, pointed his blade at the body. Except there was no body, only the tree it had been hanging from. He gaped at the empty space where the horror should have been.

“There was... I saw... It was a body! I swear to you, Elyan, there was a body hanging right there.”

“Well there's no body now,” Elyan said warily, never taking his eyes from Percival. “Sure it wasn't some shadow or a bit of foliage?”

“Damn it, Elyan, it was a body. I could even smell the bloody thing!” 

Elyan held up his hand. “All right, Perc, all right. Is that what you were yelling about, then? Lords, Perc, I thought you were being attacked.”

Percival scraped his hand down his face, his gaze shifting between the bewildered Elyan and the place where the body had been. 

There had been a body. He could still feel the wetness of it, the warmth, the stench of it settled in his lungs. But it wasn't there, and he knew very well what this had to look like. 

Percival, who feared little unless he had a damn good reason, fearing bloody shadows. 

“I thought I heard...” he began. When Elyan raised both eyebrows, prompting him to continue, Percival shook his head. “Never mind. Doesn't matter. This place is wrong and tomorrow I look forward to leaving it.”

Rather than being met with concern, Elyan answered with a chuff. “Tell me about it, mate.”

~oOo~

It was getting dark. When the sun began to set, it was time to head in – even the youngest child knew that. So where the hell were Elyan and Percival? 

Leon, leaning against the door, stared down the gentle slope to the river looking thin and silver in the distance. The horses had been watered and gathered back inside the chamber, huddled near the wall close to the door and the only source of light that didn't stink of smoke. But Elyan and Percival were no where in sight. 

Just how long did it take to gather rocks? 

Frustration burned alongside concern in Leon's chest, and he pushed himself from the door and down the slope. He would never, not in a thousand years, question the loyalty and bravery of these men he fought beside, but their maturity often left much to be desired – specifically Gwaine and his penchant for both treating even the most serious matter as a game and for being a bad influence on Percival, which then had, on occasion, a way of bleeding over onto Elyan. Then it was up to Leon to put them back in line when matters got out of hand, effectively making him the bad guy and wondering if this is what it was like to be a parent. 

They'd probably stumbled onto a berry patch. Percival had a weakness for berries

But not when it was getting dark. Unruly as the knights could be, they had discipline enough to know when to rein it in when it most mattered, such as now with twilight creeping like a blue veil over the world. 

Leon was not six steps from the door when he heard someone whisper.

“What?” he snapped irritably, thinking it was Gwaine looking to accompany him, or Merlin having been sent by Arthur to go fill the waterskins. Except they'd already been filled.

And there was no one there.

Leon waved it off as a trick of the wind and turned his focus and his steps back to the river. He saw, ink black against the gloom, a huddled shape by the river's edge.

“Percival? Elyan? Where the hell did you go off to?” Leon demanded. 

The figure made no move to rise, nor any indication of having heard Leon. 

“Elyan, Percival! You will answer me!” Leon bellowed.

He blinked.

The dark shape was gone.

Leon reached the river's edge and searched it, certain he had seen someone standing there not seconds ago, but the muddy bank – already crowded with prints both human and horse – told him nothing. Leon slowed his breathing and listened beyond the river's babbling and the wind whispering through the trees, searching for the distant thud of running footsteps. 

A voice said directly in his ear, “You should run.”

Leon spun around, drawing his sword. He found himself completely alone. 

“Damn place,” Leon snarled. They played with the mind, places like these, with their foul histories and fouler stories. They made it next to impossible to trust the senses you were so dependent on. 

“Leon!”

Leon flinched, spun around a second time, and released a relief huff of breath. “Elyan, where the hell have you been?”

Elyan, looking troubled, gestured to the tree line and Percival emerging from the already dark woods. “Looking for Percival. I thought he was in trouble.”

Leon looked to Percival for further explanation. The man shook his head, but it was belied by his extremely pale face. 

“S'nothing,” Percival said, moving swiftly past the two on his way to the tomb, his cloak of rocks draped over his shoulder. 

“I think this place is getting to him,” Elyan said, then made to follow.

After one last look at the shoreline, Leon trailed after and muttered, “I think this place is getting to us all.”

~oOo~

Merlin felt like this tomb was smothering him in all literal sense of the word, if one could even be smothered by a place. It had to be the air, or more specifically the ancient dust swirling within it, stirred up by the presence of mortal feet after being dormant for who knew how long, and ancient places had a lot of dust. Merlin had never been susceptible to the whims of dust and other lung annoyances, but it was the only explanation for how fiercely his chest ached and how dry his throat felt – not the usual symptoms one got when coming down with a cold, which usually involved more wetness. 

But, lords, did Merlin's chest hurt, like he'd been kicked repeatedly. And if that wasn't strange enough he found he could breathe as deeply as he wanted just fine, only to cough miserably when the dry air entered his lungs. He was no expert on lung irritations but he was quite sure the chest shouldn't hurt this badly simply because dust was entering his airway, and neither had he been coughing long or hard enough to blame it on sore muscles. 

At least his clothes, thinner and more simple than the knight's, had finally dried and he was able to dress, not that it did a lick of good against the chill that had made itself at home in his bones. Honestly, if it weren't for the coolness of his skin and the complete lack of liquid in his chest, he would have agreed with Arthur that he was, indeed, getting sick. He remained wrapped in his blanket, picking at the bit of bread and cheese from his rations that appealed to his appetite about as much as mud – that was the other reason he could have sworn he was ill; no appetite. 

It had to be this place was his conclusion. He'd known the moment they came barreling through the door that there was something off about it, but the longer they stayed the odder it felt – like an ever-building headache, the kind that started behind the eyes and spread into the skull until you thought your brain was going to erupt, except the pain having situated itself in his chest instead. 

A stray ember rolled from the fire. Merlin flicked it back toward the burning pile. He was alone – relatively speaking; the bedrolls laid out and everyone's packs gathered by their bedding, but Merlin the only one comfortably situated. He should have been reveling in the respite, more than happy to let Gwaine and the others do what would have normally fallen to him, but it was hard. He didn't like sitting there alone with his thoughts and the discomfort behind his sternum. Doing something might have taken his mind off the pain. On the other hand, it might have stirred up more dust and made the problem worse, if that even was the problem.

The flames popped, spewing sparks. Shadows writhed with amber light across the floor. Cold air snaked down Merlin's spine and he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

_You should run._

“What?” Merlin said, glancing around, expecting to see Gwaine, Arthur or Leon. All he saw was the darkness beyond the flickering ring of fire light. 

_You should run._

_You should not have come._

Merlin frowned. “Arthur, is that you? Gwaine? 'Cause if you think you're being funny you're not.”

 _He will come in the dark. You will not see him when he does_.

Merlin leaped to his feet, gasping when the pain in his chest became as cold and sharp as a blade. “Arthur, Gwaine, seriously, stop, this isn't funny. I don't... I don't feel so well--”

_He will come in the dark, to find what he has lost._

Merlin doubled up with a groan, digging his knuckles into his breastbone, wanting - _needing_ \- to stop the pain, he didn't care how.

_You need to run._

He looked up, saw hazy, pale shapes moving through the dark, and froze. Three figures stepped into the light.

Merlin sighed. It was only Leon, Percival and Elyan, Leon and Percival near-white as parchment and all three men brooding and silent. The last time he had seen them this dour...

Merlin swallowed. “You... you all right?”

Leon looked up sharply. Merlin flinched. Then Leon blinked, shaking his head. “Um... yes, fine. Just a little tired, I suppose.” He squinted. “Are you all right? You seem to be in pain.”

The tension that had knotted Merlin's muscles without him realizing it released their hold, and another breath of relief followed it, because a concerned Leon was not a Leon under possession.

And now that Leon had mentioned it, the pain in Merlin's chest had also diminished – still there, but not so blasted crippling as a moment ago. 

“Yeah, fine,” Merlin said lightly, although his hand remained at his chest. “Just... all this blasted coughing getting to me, I think,” he said, and as though his body were more than happy to prove it, he coughed dryly into his fist. 

“Then you'd best sit down, haven't you, Merlin?” said Gwaine jauntily, entering the light and forcing Merlin back to the floor with a gentle shove to his shoulder. Arthur also returned with a pile of leaves and twigs in his arms. Elyan set up the rocks Percival had collected around the fire, while Percival stood there, white and staring blankly into the flames. 

That settled it – there was most definitely something wrong with this place. Even worse, until Merlin knew what it was, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. 

It was like the bloody Lamia all over again. 

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

Merlin was dreaming – at least he seriously hoped he was dreaming, because if he wasn't then there was something a hell of a lot more wrong with him than he'd first thought. The agony in his chest was back, the one that made him feel as though he were being stabbed, and whatever was stabbing him was ice-cold and spreading through his veins. He couldn't move, he couldn't damn well _breathe_. He lay there, his body struggling to inflate lungs behind a ribcage that refused to expand. Merlin could feel himself begin to flail; arms flung out, fingers clawing the ground, legs twitching – a body wanting to run just to know that it could, to know that it wasn't trapped and dying. 

Lords, oh lords, lords, lords he _was_ dying. Sparks were igniting in his vision and his head was throbbing – his whole body was throbbing, begging him for oxygen but the ice-knife wouldn't let him breathe. Just one breath.

 _Come on, please, just one! You can do it!_ Merlin begged himself.

Then, like a too-taut rope reaching its breaking point, something inside him seemed to snap. Merlin gulped down as much air as his lungs could hold then released it on a gasp. He sucked in more air, and he never thought dust and fire-smoke could taste so good. When Merlin scrubbed at his aching face, his hands came away wet. Lovely – suffocating and crying while doing so, but at least he wasn't curled into a ball whimpering like a child, although a part of him very much wanted to.

What in the bleeding name of Albion had been happening to him? He brought his hand to his chest where he poked and prodded, searching for the wound or broken bones that had to be there – it had hurt _that_ bad. All he could feel was solid skin and the equally solid bones underneath. The pain was gone – not entirely gone but now no more than a shadow of itself, a dull ache that was annoying and not much else.

But the pain wasn't forgotten. It echoed in his mind, taunted him with the possibility of another more vicious return the moment he fell back to sleep. Merlin lay there staring with wide eyes up at the blackness hiding the ceiling. 

What if the next time he didn't wake up?

Merlin was ripped from those thoughts by a sound in the silence. He held his breath, a short-lived endeavor when his chest began to tighten in panic. But silence wasn't necessary when Merlin heard the sound again.

Yes. Right there. Unmistakable. 

Stone grinding against stone.

Merlin rolled onto his side with a stifled grunt, then pushed himself onto his feet. His blanket fell from him, leaving him open to the chill air in only his thin clothes, and he shivered.

There it was again, in the dark. The scraping. 

Merlin grabbed his candle standing next to his pallet and thrust it into the dying embers of the fire. He could have lit it with a whispered word of magic but didn't feel like taking chances, not with the knights nearby and as jittery as Merlin, even in their sleep. 

Maybe that was why Merlin didn't wake them, choosing to investigate the noise on his own no matter how much his instincts of self-preservation begged him not to, because those same instincts balked at the idea of waking nervous knights. Knights could be dangerous when half-asleep and on edge, dangerous and angry...

Merlin twitched his head, throwing the thoughts to the side. This wasn't the lamia, he reminded himself, and he would keep telling himself that until he finally got it through his head.

But still he kept moving forward away from the knights and the red circle of the dying fire. He was moving down the aisle between the pews toward the tomb hidden in the dark. 

The scraping stopped, and when it did, Merlin stopped. There was only a brief heartbeat of silence before it was replaced by something both new and odd.

Slapping, like bare feet on cold stone. 

“Hello?” Merlin called timidly, his voice small. Maybe one of the knights was sleepwalking. No, the knights always slept with their boots on, always ready for whatever might come at them during the night. 

Merlin forced himself forward, bolstering himself with the thought that if it was anything dangerous it would have attacked him by now, and that the reason the candle flame was guttering was because there was a draft, not because his hand was shaking. He wasn't scared, not one bit.

He was bloody terrified.

So he surprised himself when he reached the tomb and managed not to turn and run.

The tomb's lid had been moved. 

Merlin didn't think about it when he whispered a word that enhanced the candle's light, spreading its glow until it encompassed the tomb and beyond. He had wanted a quick look at the interior, that was all, when something wet and glittering on the tomb's other side tugged hard at his attention. Merlin moved around the tomb. He gulped back bile.

There were footprints. They were leading away from the tomb. They vanished into the wall.

They were _red_. 

Merlin back-peddled quickly away, heart in his throat and breath caught because of it. His back collided with something both hard and soft and he yelped, leaping away. His timing was excellent when the space where he had been standing was now occupied with a sword, and its tip pointed right at his throat. 

The shock of it all had caused Merlin to drop his candle. The light had somehow survived, the candle rolling back and forth, the light wavering in and out, shadows chasing each other across the face staring at Merlin with wide, horrified eyes.  
“Merlin, damn it, I nearly ran you through,” Gwaine said, but any anger he might have felt had been lost to the small quaver in his voice. 

“Um... you still might,” Merlin squeaked, pointing at the blade. 

Gwaine balked and pulled it away. “Sorry! Sorry. But you did scare the hell out of me.”

“I scared the hell out of _you_?” Merlin gaped. 

“What are you doing up? You still trying to cough up a lung?”

Merlin picked up the candle, grabbed Gwaine by the sleeve of his slightly moist doublet, pulled him to the tomb, and aimed a bony finger at the open lid. “ _That._

The whites of Gwaine's eyes were bright in the gloom as he stared at the narrow opening. “Merlin, what did you do?” he demanded.

“What did I do!” Merlin snapped. He huffed. “Gwaine, honestly, as much as I hate to admit this do I look even remotely capable of pushing aside a stone lid with the weight equivalent of three horses?”

Gwaine seemed to take a moment to consider this – which, Merlin also hated to admit, he really shouldn't have – then smiled and clapped Merlin on the shoulder. “Right, sorry.”

“Did you not hear the scraping?” Merlin said next, more tremulous than irate.

Gwaine immediately sobered. “I heard something. I was standing watch at the door so I wasn't sure where it was coming from until I saw your candlelight.” He cleared his throat, feet shifting, expression suddenly uneasy. “I thought it was... something else.”

“What, like a ghost?”

“Or something,” Gwaine said quickly.

Which should have been cause enough to crack at least half a smile – big, tough, will-fight-anything-on-a-whim Gwaine afraid of little lights bobbing in the dark. Instead, Merlin aimed his candle in his unsteady hold beyond the tomb and it's open lid. Even with Gwaine's face mostly in shadow, Merlin could see it drain of color. 

“Oh that is... not natural. Not natural at all,” Gwaine muttered. “Did whatever was in the tomb...? Has it... is it...?”

Merlin redirected his light to shine within the narrow space of the coffin. It was with a near-painful hesitation that they both looked inside. 

The interior was nothing remarkable – bits of rotted cloth, bits of fleshless bone, as if not even a heavy stone lid could halt time and decay from ravaging the body, and ravaged it was. There wasn't even a skull, only an arm bone here, a rib there, and that was all Merlin could see.

“What, did it forget pieces of itself?” Gwaine said, not only unimpressed but also disgusted. “What the hell is the point of a tomb if there's not much of a body to keep it?”

“Maybe that's all that was left?” Merlin suggested.

“Maybe,” said Gwaine. He snatched the candle from Merlin's hand. “Or maybe we're looking at this the wrong way.” Then he moved to the wall on the other side, which he began to search. Merlin watched him nervously.

“I've seen a lot of strange things in my travels, Merlin,” Gwaine said as he passed his hand over the smooth stone between the statues. “Both impossible and what only seems impossible until you look at it close enough. I once meant a traveling performer who claimed he could make just about anything disappear. Turned out he was merely using a trap door in his stage. I probably wouldn't have been the wiser but I'd needed a quick exit, you see and... Merlin, come look at this.”

Merlin positioned himself next to Gwaine and leaned in to where Gwaine's finger was tracing something on the wall. 

It looked to be a line, a perfectly straight crack in the otherwise unblemished surface. 

“A door?” Merlin said.

“A hidden door,” Gwaine said, smiling. “Sometimes even ghosts turn out to be flesh and blood.”

“So you're saying, what, that someone is playing some kind of... trick on us?”

“I'm saying that we probably have grave robbers and that I can run them through if they try anything. I would think that an improvement, Merlin. Grave robbers we can fight.”

Merlin wanted to share in Gwaine's positive outlook on the matter, he really did. Flesh and blood they could deal with, even with magic involved. But this... nothing about this felt like the work of human hands. He knew a thing or two about hidden passages, had discovered quite a few of them in Camelot's castle, and knew that the vast majority of them whether opened mechanically or with bare hands were not all that quiet about it. If he could hear the softer scrape of an open tomb, he should have been able to hear a hidden door open and close. And he hadn't. The scraping had stopped well before he had heard the footsteps. 

“Gwaine--” Merlin began.

Somewhere within the chamber, a child laughed. Both men turned, Gwaine drawing his sword and Merlin pressing his back to the wall. 

“I don't think that's grave robbers,” Merlin said. 

“Still doesn't mean it isn't flesh and blood,” Gwaine said. He grabbed Merlin by the shoulder of his shirt and pulled him back toward the dying fire. Gwaine stirred it with his sword, waking the flames that he then fed from the pile of leaves and twigs they had gathered for more fuel. After that, he followed along the ring of bedrolls and sleeping men, waking each by slapping the flat of his blade to a back or shoulder.

“Rise and shine, lads, we've got a problem.”

“It better be a damn good, problem, Gwaine,” Elyan groaned. “It took me forever to fall asleep.”

The child laughed a second time, and another child joined it. It seemed to be all around them, that laughter; above, below, behind, in front, far away, and right in their ears – like children playing hide and seek, there but not there. 

Then it stopped. 

“That good enough for you,” Gwaine said grimly, searching the darkness.

“How did children find there way here?” asked Percival, worried.

Merlin shook his head. “They didn't.” He winced. His chest was hurting, not the ice-knife pain of when he woke up but the pulsating crack like having been struck with a mailed hand. “Gwaine, this isn't grave robbers. We need to leave and leave, _now_.”

“And go where?” Arthur snapped. “The bridge is out if you happen to recall.”

“Then to the woods! Anywhere! Anywhere that isn't here.” 

Three children laughed this time as their unseen bodies frolicked around them, never leaving the dark. 

“Enough of this,” Arthur said. He grabbed up his sword from where it rested by his pallet. “Take light and spread out. Like hell we're going to flee from _children_. 

“Arthur, no, that's not a good idea!” Merlin tried. But the knights had their candles lit and were moving away from the safety of their circle. All except for Gwaine who tugged on Merlin's sleeve.

“Merlin, come on. You can help me.”

But whether it was because Gwaine didn't want to be alone – which was doubtful – or he thought Merlin didn't – which should have been humiliating – Merlin didn't think on it because he didn't care. The children's laughter came and went, rising and falling like a wave. Unnatural. Candlelight bobbed in the distance vanishing and reappearing whenever someone moved behind a pillar. 

The laughter stopped halfway into the search. Merlin was quite sure that between the lot of them they had every inch of this place covered, but when they finally regrouped, the only report was that they had found nothing.

“Wait...” Arthur said, glancing at each of his men. “Where's Percival?”

“Percival?” Elyan called. Then they were all calling, all searching. Gwaine and Merlin made their way to the entrance and another horrifying discovery.

The horses were gone. 

“Damn it all!” Gwaine snarled. He hurried outside and Merlin followed, both of them ending up on the bank of the river. The night was black, the moon hidden behind the clouds and the candles threatening to bend beneath the will of the wind.

“The horses must have wandered off to the woods,” Gwaine said. “Percival must have gone after them. Percival! Percival, where the hell are you!”

No one answered. Merlin shook his head.

“No, he would have said something. Called to us about the horses being gone,” he said. 

They ran back inside to report. Elyan and Arthur were already back at the fire. Leon was nowhere to be seen.

“Leon, Percival!!” Arthur called. “What the hell is going on! Leon, Percival, I order you to answer!”

“The horses are gone as well,” Gwaine said breathlessly. “Not a trace of them. Merlin's right, this isn't natural.”

“Don't be ridiculous, they have to be somewhere,” Arthur said.

Merlin looked at Gwaine. “The door?”

“Door, what door?” Arthur demanded.

“This way,” Gwaine said, and then they were back at the wall, seeking out the near-hidden seam.

“Here,” Gwaine said, tracing the seam with his finger. “The right size and shape for a door if we can only find the bloody catch.” He shifted over to the right-side statue and searched it carefully. Elyan took the left-side statue. 

Arthur was staring at the tomb. He asked as though dazed, “What happened? Why is this open?”

“I don't know,” said Merlin, rubbing his chest that would not stop hurting. “I don't know what's going on. I found it like that, and the footprints...”

But Arthur seemed to have eyes only for the tomb. 

“Arthur?” Merlin said carefully.

Arthur startled like a man waking up. 

“Arthur, are you all right?” Merlin asked.

“Yes. Fine,” Arthur said. His eyes said differently, no longer staring at the tomb but still staring as though at some distant image only he could see but could not fathom, and it was scaring him.

A shout echoing through the chamber made them all freeze. It bounced around the chamber, left, right, ahead, behind before fading away, like someone had been dragged in every possible and impossible direction. 

“That was Leon,” Arthur said. He he burst into a run toward the dark and would have vanished, having dropped his candle, when Merlin, blinded by dread, tackled him. 

“Arthur, no!”

“Damn it, Merlin, get off me, I have to help them!”

“You can't unless you want to end up just like them!”

“Merlin--!”

A second shout skittered through the room – Percival. 

Arthur struggled like a cornered animal. He threw his head back hoping to head-butt Merlin but Merlin reared away in time to miss it. Arthur then flipped onto his back, on top of Merlin, and elbowed the thinner man right in the chest. The pain was like an explosion ripping through Merlin and robbing him of air. He lay there, choking, gasping, clawing at his own chest as if he could open it and free the obstruction. He was barely aware of being lifted up by the front of his shirt, of Arthur yelling at his face, of being shaken like a rag in a dog's mouth. 

“--is wrong with you!” Arthur bellowed. The words punched through the panic rattling Merlin's brain, tearing away the obstruction blocking his airway. He took a breath, then another and another, knowing only the need to breathe. 

Then he was shoved, hard, and might have dropped to the floor and lost the means to breathe again if Gwaine hadn't been there to catch him. 

“Arthur, you damn bastard, he can't breathe! Leave off!”

“Arthur,” Merlin forced between his desperate gulps for air. “Arthur you can't... you'll vanish... it's what it wants us to do.”

“Merlin's right,” Gwaine said through clenched teeth.

“ _Mer_ lin isn't making any sense,” Arthur seethed. 

“Then pay better attention!”Gwaine bellowed. “Don't you see, Arthur? Every time we split up another of us is taken. I want to help the others as much as you but we won't be any good to anyone if we're taken ourselves. You need to calm down and _think_.”

Merlin forced his wobbily head up to look at Arthur. The candles had been extinguished in the melee, but the fire of their camp burned bright, casting enough light even at this distance for Merlin to see Arthur's eyes – still so blank, so dazed, a man caught in a dream.

It became the least of their worries.

“Elyan?” Merlin said. All three of them glanced around. Gwaine, pulling Merlin's arm over his shoulder to keep him upright, hurried over to the statue. But Elyan was gone.

“Damn it all!” Arthur shouted, kicking at the tomb. 

“We need to stay close,” Merlin said, now that he was able to breathe properly. 

Arthur said nothing, clenching and unclenching his fist, a man looking for a fight. Then, “We need light. We need to open that damn door!” But he waited long enough for Merlin and Gwaine to move close enough for each man to keep the other in sight and follow him back to the fire. It was a long enough walk for Merlin to notice Arthur's stiff stance.

When you served a singular person for as many years as Merlin had you came to know them right down to those small, intricate details that most people didn't know how to look for. But Merlin knew how to look, how to translate one stance from another, and the stance in front of him was _not_ of a man barely containing his anger. It was _too_ rigid, a man literally, in every sense of the word, holding himself together; his walk almost faltering, like someone pretending very hard that they weren't feeling ill and completely failing. 

Something was wrong.

Merlin opened his mouth, ready to ask if Arthur was feeling all right and just as ready to push the matter the moment he denied it, which he would most certainly try to do. Then they were at the fire, back within the light, and the chamber began to rumble. 

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh heh, so, um... the next post won't be until Monday *runs and hides*


	5. Chapter 5

After Gwaine's reveal that the chamber had a hidden door, Arthur had been firm in his opinion that all that was happening was nothing more than sorcery, and that once they had the door open and the sorcerer slain then all would be as it was.

He renounced that opinion. This wasn't sorcery, this was pure insanity. The entire chamber rumbled throatily as if a massive fist were pounding at it relentlessly, hell bent on caving in the entire structure. Arthur could feel the impacts beneath his feet, vibrating up his legs into his chest.

And, yet, nothing was disturbed, no dust raining from the ceiling nor the fragile debris of the fire shaken loose. He could feel the assault, but he couldn't _see_ it. 

If this was sorcery, then why the games? Why not have it out in a single blow? 

Madness, all of it. Nothing but madness.

Arthur moved closer to the fire, his sword at the ready. He felt Gwain at his back and Merlin next to the both of them, unarmed but with the fire between him and whatever the hell might be out there waiting, watching, looking for the right opportunity to pull them one by one into the dark.

Arthur's heart raced like a run away horse in his chest. It was odd - a contradiction to the fatigue spreading itself like flowing mud over his bones. 

The chamber rumbled all round them, a giant's fist knocking on the walls. 

“So what the bloody hell are we supposed to do against spooks!” Gwaine shouted above the cacophony.

Gwaine was right. What were they supposed to do against an enemy they couldn't see and who preferred cowardly mind games over direct confrontation? How was Arthur to find his men when it seemed the very darkness itself had eaten them alive?

_You are to do nothing, my dear king. Nothing but to lie down and accept the inevitable._

Arthur twitched his head, tossing his strange thoughts from his mind. “We stay in the light,” he said. “As long as we can see each other then we'll be fine.”

Gwaine's presence vanished from behind with a yelp. Arthur whirled around just in time to see the knight on the floor like he'd had his feet kicked out from under him. Arthur didn't know how he knew when to act, what to do, when he lunged for Gwaine at the same time the knight began to move, by himself, no hands or claws pulling at him, toward the dark. But Arthur grabbed his arm and held on, Merlin taking the other arm.

“It's got my leg! It's got my leg!” Gwaine screamed with a naked terror Arthur had not thought had ever been known to the knight. A terror he shared because, damn it, something was pulling on the knight with all that it had and _there was nothing there_. 

But the nothing was stronger, Gwaine's arms slipping from Arthur's and Merlin's combined hold even has Gwaine gripped right back hard enough to bruise.

“Hang on!” Arthur shouted.

“I'm trying!”

Merlin muttered something but between the incessant banging all around and their struggling grunts Arthur couldn't make out the words. The last word he heard loud and clear – Merlin swearing harshly.

Gwaine's arms slipped free of their grip. Like being caught in the stirrup of a spooked mount, the knight was carried quickly away into the darkness, too fast for Arthur or Merlin to catch him.

“No!” Arthur shrieked at the dark. “No, you bastard! You coward! You give him back! Give him back now!” He marched toward the dark, his sword raised, his body and mind shielded by his fury, but a tight grip on his arm stopped him.

“Arthur, no, you can't!” Merlin begged. 

No, he could, he would, and like hell anything or anyone was going to stop him. No more. He was done. He'd had enough. He would destroy the dark or destroy himself in the process, but either way he would _not be stopped_ , not this time.

Yet Merlin's hand refused to let go and he pulled and pulled like a child throwing a tantrum. Arthur shrugged Merlin's arm off only to have it return seconds later.

“Merlin, release me now!” Arthur snarled.

“No, Arthur, I will not. You're going to get yourself killed!”

Arthur spun around and shoved Merlin away. “Then I get myself killed! So be it! Because I will _not_ stand by and let this... _thing_ take us. It has my men, Merlin. It has our friends and you would have me stand here? Do nothing? Let it play its games? I will not! I will not let it beat us! I will not let it kill my men. If I can fight then I will fight and you will _not_ stop me!”

Arthur faced the darkness and marched toward it, heart and mind knowing only imminent battle and oh so very prepared for it, wanting it, _needing it_. If blood was to spill, then by the gods, it would be spilled by his hands.

But there was that grip again, kitten-weak but obnoxiously persistent, and that, too, Arthur had had enough of.

Arthur turned and struck out with his fist.

He saw, like a man dreaming, Merlin's skinny body crumple to the ground on his side, his pale face already smearing with blood as he clutched it, the whole of him looking suddenly small and frail and _broken_. 

Arthur blinked - a man waking up - and that was exactly what he felt like.

“Merlin?” He dropped to the floor, heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with whatever was out there, hardly even noticing that the pounding and rumbling had stopped. He had hit Merlin. Lords, in all the years that Merlin had dogged his heels, mouthed off and annoyed the hell out of him, provoked him to throw things, add to his chores and spar until he was too sore to move, not once had Arthur ever been driven to strike him, not even so so much as contemplate it. Merlin was a man you annoyed right back, not hit. He didn't deserve to be hit. He was skinny and weak and irritatingly happy, and you don't hit people who are irritatingly happy. 

“Merlin, I'm so sorry. I – I don't know what came over me. I don't know why I did that!”

And he didn't, he honestly didn't, because it may have been his body moving but he could have sworn it hadn't been his own mind guiding it.

Merlin waved him frantically back, and Arthur didn't blame him. No one liked being touched by the one who had just struck them down. With one hand still pressed to his face, Merlin propped himself onto his elbow, then struggled upright against what had to be a spinning head. Arthur helped him whether he liked it or not with a hand on his arm. 

“Damn it, Merlin, let me help!” Arthur said when Merlin began to struggle. Once upright, Merlin glared at him, which Arthur knew he deserved...

No. Wait. Not glared. Arthur had become well-acquainted with Merlin's sundry expressions, most especially his glares, and the way he was looking at Arthur, it wasn't a glare. 

It was scrutiny, and a wary, mistrusting scrutiny at that; the look he might give a stranger who had yet to prove whether he was friend or foe. He sat there, eying Arthur carefully, picking him apart and putting him back together and still painfully unsure as to what it was he was looking at.

The, finally, “Arthur... what the hell was that?”

What the hell was that. Leave it to Merlin to ask the unanswerable and state the obvious at the same time. How was Arthur to know what it was? He didn't even know he had it in him to hit a mere servant, and knowing that he'd done it had left him sick to his stomach.

He didn't know what the hell that had been. 

“Arthur?” Merlin said, softer this time, the scrutiny gone and in its place a tentative concern. “Arthur, are you all right?”

Arthur snorted. “My knights have vanished, something was attempting to beat the chamber down around our ears and you're asking if I'm all right? Of course I'm not all right!” And the quivering in his voice attested to it. It also made him realized that his hands were shaking – his whole body was shaking – and he allowed himself to sink to his knees and maintain what dignity he had instead of dropping in an ungainly heap. 

Lords, he was so bloody tired.

Merlin shifted into a more comfortable position in front of him. “Arthur--”

Arthur didn't let him finish, grabbing his wrist and moving his hand aside to assess the damage. “Let me see.”

The side of Merlin's face was red, blood trickling from a cut on his cheek and more from his nose. Arthur frowned.

“I'm sorry,” he said again.

“Not your fault,” Merlin said nasally. “It's this place.” He glanced around moving only his eyes. “This very, suddenly quiet place. I don't like sudden quiet.” He shuddered.

Arthur agreed with him wholeheartedly. What had occurred only moments ago had been like silent infiltration followed by an all-out assault. So what was this, then? Triumph? A lull in the attack? No, more like more games, and it was for that reason Arthur kept his eyes glued to Merlin and his hands within easy snatching reach. Merlin was apparently doing the same, like they were having a staring contest. 

Merlin took a breath, about to say something, but he coughed instead. It was a deeper, more painful cough than the last few and made Arthur realize how pale and haggard Merlin looked, not merely exhausted but deeply ill. 

And Arthur had to wonder if that was why Merlin wasn't being taken like the others. Because why take him when forcing Arthur to watch him succumb to some... _magical_ or whatever illness was much more cruel. If this place was even the cause of his illness; Arthur wouldn't have been surprised.

“What do we do, now?” Arthur asked, and hated how almost child-like he sounded. He wasn't losing hope, not yet. There had to be an explanation for all this. There had to be a way out of it. That hidden door was the key, it had to be, and Arthur would have loved nothing more than to get up, go to it and find the blasted way in but, for some reason, moving seemed like a bad idea right now. 

Because it would mean taking his eyes off of Merlin, and that wasn't going to happen.

Merlin stared at him helplessly. “I – I don't know,” he rasped hoarsely, just as helplessly, as though not knowing was a terrible failure he was completely sorry for. He wiped as much blood as he could from his face with his sleeve, smearing most of it. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I didn't actually expect an answer, Merlin. Although a suggestion would be greatly appreciated.”

“We don't know enough about this place, that's the problem,” Merlin said. He coughed more, and it made him whimper and clutch his chest. “Arthur, do you know anything else about the Valley or the fallen kings? Anything at all?”

Arthur sighed, wiping his hand down his mouth. “I didn't want to say anything more, you know. You're superstitious enough as it is.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow and said with a weak smile, blood-stained smile, “Can you blame me?”

Arthur chuffed dryly. “No I can't. All right, fine, then. Two of the kings were said to have possessed magic. One of those kings was the first to break the truce. Not officially, not in words. He did it in deeds. His land was prosperous, more prosperous than any and yet his people kept fleeing his lands, bringing with them tales of loved ones vanishing in the night and the king doing little about it. The other lords looked into it, of course. What they found was worse than any blatant act of treachery. The king himself was the reason his people were vanishing. He was said to have practiced a magic so dark it is outlawed even among sorcerers; magic that requires blood sacrifices and slow, agonizing death, to appeal to devils and demons or some such, I can't remember. But he would take his people, lock them up, and bleed them for his magic. As a result, the land flourished but its people didn't. The kings declared war and the first of what would be many battles was waged in this valley. It is said the sorcerer king hid here, lived here – him and his followers. And he died here. Some say it was he who cursed the land or maybe the kings themselves so that they, too, would one day fall as he had and in this very valley.”

“And this could be his tomb,” Merlin stated.

Arthur shrugged. “It could be any of their tombs. The thing is...” and, if he were honest with himself, this was the part he had been hoping to avoid, the fuel for pointless superstitions and fears, but like it mattered, he supposed. “The thing is, of all the kings, only the sorcerer-king's body was never found. The story's say that his followers had removed it, hid it...” he cleared his throat and said quickly, “because the king had cursed himself to one day return.”

This time it was both of Merlin's eyebrows that reached for his hairline. “Excuse me? He _cursed_ himself?”

Arthur nodded grimly. “Yes. To one day return.”

Merlin stiffened. “Oh that's just brilliant,” he spat. “So we could be sitting near the tomb of a king looking to possess a body. And, oh, look, a king's body ready for the taking. How convenient.” Then, something like realization passed over his face. Arthur couldn't be sure, realization often looked a lot like absolute confusion when it came to Merlin.

“That's it,” Merlin breathed, mostly to himself. So definitely realization, then. His gaze sharpened, turning intense and a little manic as they focused deeply on Arthur. “Arthur, I need you to be honest with me. How do you feel?”

“How do I feel? Angry, that's how I feel!”

“What else?”

“I don't know. More than ready to leave this place? Exhausted? Why? What does it matter?”

“It matters more than you can imagine if that story you just told me is true! Arthur, I know you like to think yourself above superstitions but with how often we deal with sorcerers and the like I think even you have to agree that curses – even fabled ones – shouldn't be taken lightly. It makes perfect sense!”

Arthur rubbed his aching face. The exhaustion creeping over him had now saturated every inch, and it was only the panic sparked by their predicament keeping him awake, yet barely.

“Merlin, I'm too tired for this. Make sense yourself.”

“Arthur, listen... hey, pay attention!” A light pat to Arthur's face roused him to the fact that he had been nodding off – was he really so tired? He forced his gaze to focus blearily on Merlin. 

“M'listening,” he said.

Merlin nodded. “Good. Because I know what's happening. You remember Sigan?”

“The one with the gargoyles? Rather hard to forget.”

“He found a way to cheat death, right? But it order to make it happen he needed a body to inhabit. He used a crystal to trap his soul but even using a crystal there still needs to be a balance of life and death. Someone must have been killed to create that crystal. Not only to create it but to ensure that whoever touched it he would possess. A pre-spell, if you will.”

“So?”

“So!” Merlin crowed. “So, it stands to reason that a sacrifice has to be made in order for this king to do what Sigan did. The knights, Arthur! That's why they were taken. To get them out of the way and to have someone to sacrifice!”

“That's not exactly good news, Merlin,” Arthur said drowsily. It really was getting hard to stay awake.

“Yes, it is! Because it means they're still alive! If we can find them, leave this place, then the king won't be able to possess anyone.”

Arthur squinted at him. “How do you figure all that? And how do you know so much about this life and death magic?”

Merlin blinked. “Oh. Um... well... Gaius and I tend to discuss these things. Quite a bit, actually. You know, what with all the sorcerers we face. Think like the enemy and all that, right?” He tacked on a nervous smile.

“S'long as you're not actually practicing magic,” Arthur said drowsily.

“Arthur wake up!” Merlin snapped right in Arthur's face, shaking him by the shoulder. “We need to get up, open that door, find the knights and leave. Only _then_ will we be safe. As long as this king doesn't have a body to possess then we'll be safe. I'd even bet my life he can't leave this place.”

“I'll hold you to that bet, young one,” said Arthur. At least, said Arthur's mouth. But Arthur was sure those hadn't been his words. He hadn't thought them, hadn't meant to say anything, and yet there they were, spoken without his bidding. 

“But I can guarantee you will lose,” said Arthur's mouth again. Arthur's body rose, a body he could no longer feel or control. His hand picked up his sword, his feet shifted into a fighting stance, and his lips smiled. 

Only then did Arthur realize the horrifying fact that he wasn't the one moving.


	6. Chapter 6

“You're a smart one, lad,” the thing that wasn't Arthur said, giving Arthur's sword a twirl. “One little ghost story from your dear king and you have it all figured out.”

Merlin was on his feet and took a quick step back, but Not-Arthur did not seem all that inclined to attack him just yet, if it planned to attack him at all.

“I was thinking of keeping you around,” Not-Arthur went on. “Silly little man servant, with not a clue as to what was going on – a useful thing to have around. I always did enjoy having someone at my beck and call. But, then, you had to go and show how clever you were. It's you're own fault, really. I could reclaim what is mine, you could have been none the wiser and I would have let you live. Pity.”

Arthur lunged forward, sword swinging. Merlin leaped to the side but not before the blade's tip graze him across the shoulder. Merlin stumbled back clutching his bleeding limb, his heart beating fast and his breaths coming faster. 

Not-Arthur smiled, looking both pleased and impressed. “A quick one, too. This could have been fun.”

“Could have been?” Merlin said, thinking fast, buying what time he could. “I thought that was the whole point of this little show of yours – having fun, showing off. You could have taken me at any time but you're going at me with a sword instead. If you want to end it so quick then why don't you?”

Not-Arthur pursed his lips. “You know, I'd love to chat about this, but I really don't have the time.” He lunged forward.

And stumbled with a gasp. He veered off well away from Merlin who had tensed in preparation to leap aside. Merlin watched on, wide-eyed, as Arthur's body shuddered then sagged, back heaving with desperate breaths.

“Oh, that was horrible,” Arthur rasped. He turned to Merlin and Merlin tensed, readying himself for another dodge.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, weary but desperate. “Merlin, don't come near me. He might take me again, I don't know if I have much time.”

“Arthur, what--” Merlin began moving toward his king. Arthur halted him with a raised hand and a look that managed to be both manic and exasperated.

“What did I just say about not having much time! Lords, Merlin, could you obey me just this once? Listen to me, I mean it. I saw his mind. Merlin, you're right, he needs a body and a death to both seal his soul to the body and rid the body of its original soul. It's why he took the knights, to have a body ready to sacrifice but he's chosen you instead! Merlin, you have to keep him from killing _anyone_ until the sun rises. He has to do this before sunrise or he'll be forced back into the tomb--”

Arthur cried out, doubling over and clutching his head. “He can only kill when in a physical--” then he stopped cringing, straightened, lifted his sword and turned to Merlin with a pleased smirk.

“Oops. Someone's a bit chatty, isn't he?”

“A good thing as far as I'm concerned,” Merlin said coolly. He circled away from Not-Arthur while Not-Arthur circled toward him. “So, sunrise and you're evicted. I'm also to assume you need to be in a physical body in order to kill.”

“Oh, I could kill you with just a thought, dear boy,” Not-Arthur said. “Reach through your chest if I wanted, squeeze your little heart until it quivers in my grip and dies. Problem is, it's not the death I really need, it's the blood. I need to drink it, you see – take the life force of another and all that. Unpleasant, I know, but I'm quite used to it.”

Not-Arthur lunged with the sword held high. Merlin leaped back and with a whispered word moved the nearest pack right beneath Not-Arthur's feet. As Not-Arthur stumbled, Merlin ran straight for the hidden door.

“You slippery little bastard!” Not-Arthur snarled behind him.

Merlin's chest pounded, constricting as though Not-Arthur's hand really had plunged through his chest. He forced himself to ignore it, taking shallow breaths to keep conscious. He skidded to a stop in front of the first statue. He stopped searching it as soon as he started. 

Elyan and Gwaine had already made a search of both statues with nothing to show for it. But where else would the bloody switch be? 

Merlin flung himself at the tomb.

“Merlin!” he heard Arthur call. “Merlin, I'm in control for now! Whatever you're doing do it faster!”

Merlin felt along the dark block of the coffin – outside, then inside as far as his arms could reach until he felt an odd indent on the inside wall of the tomb. He pressed it. A click. Stone scraped against stone. Merlin pushed away from the tomb into the gaping blackness where the hidden door had been. He hurried down the stairs, calling out.

“Gwaine! Elyan! Percival! Leon!” 

No one answered. Merlin threw caution to the wind and called forth light that hovered as a blue ball over his palm. The light revealed a new chamber, a dungeon with its walls lined with shackles and covered in grime and what had to be blood. Chained to four of those manacles were the knights, eyes closed because they were _hopefully_ just unconscious. 

There were also torches, old but mostly untouched by time. Merlin's eyes flashed and flames sprang to life, allowing him to release the orb and freeing his hands to shake and pat and even slap the knights to some semblance of consciousness.

“Wake up, damn it! We need to get out of here! Arthur's in danger!”

The knights stirred – thank the gods! - and Merlin took their half-awake state to his advantage, magically unlocking each chain. The knights dropping to the floor woke them better than Merlin's frantic yelling and slapping. Merlin lifted them to their feet one by one, drew each of their swords and placed them in their hands, then pushed them toward the door.

“You need to get out, now! And get ready to defend yourselves,” Merlin said.

Whatever vestiges that had been keeping the knights groggy fled in the wake of the word defend. They raised their swords, their suddenly alert eyes scanning their surroundings for danger as they made their quick way up the stairs. Merlin followed. 

Merlin was only two steps out of the door when pain both hot and cold ripped across his back below his shoulder-blades. He arched with a cry of pain, halting the knights who whipped around, ready for a fight. 

“Merlin!” Gwaine yelled, rushing toward him. But it wasn't Gwaine who caught him. Merlin looked up into the pale, sickly face of a horrified Arthur.

“I'm trying, Merlin,” he said.

“I know,” Merlin said.

Arthur shoved Merlin into Gwaine's arms. “Get him out of here, now! Before-- gah!” Arthur clutched his head and staggered back. 

“What the hell?” Gwaine breathed.

“Don't ask,” Merlin grunted. “Just someone grab him and get him out!”

Percival and Elyan moved forward, doing as told, when Arthur straightened, sword at the ready. “Oh no you don't.” Then he attacked, forcing a confused Percival, Elyan and now Leon joining them to fight back or get struck down.

“Oh yes we do,” Merlin muttered, and his eyes flashed. The unseen force aimed at Arthur robbed him of balance long enough for Leon to smash him over the head with his sword's pommel. Leon grabbed Arthur and steered his fall onto a waiting Percival's shoulder. 

“Get him out of here and he'll be fine!” Merlin said. He coughed harshly.

They ran to the door. It was just as they reached it that Merlin looked back and whispered a spell. The chamber began to shake and rumble. Dust rained from the ceiling and cracks formed spiderwebs in the pillars. The very moment Percival carried Arthur over the threshold, Arthur convulsed, and somewhere in the chamber, a man screamed in rage. 

The chamber collapsed, pillars toppling like trees and great slabs of ceiling crashing to the floor. Merlin saw just before the dust rose in great clouds one of the pillars fall on the tomb, smashing it to pieces.

Merlin, dizzy, staggering, convulsing with coughs, was lowered to the ground next to an unconscious Arthur.

“Merlin, you're bleeding,” Gwain stated, and Merlin could feel him lifting his shirt, feel the cool air brush softly across his spine. “Doesn't look deep but still... don't tell me Arthur did this?”

“Trust me, it wasn't Arthur,” Merlin rasped. He coughed weakly into his fist.

But he realized, with some small pleasure, that his chest no longer ached abominably. 

“Look what I found!” called Elyan, and they all looked up to see him approach with their horses in tow. “Just across the river, in fact,” he said. He looked back, and everyone looked with him.

At some point in time during the night, the river's depth had decreased and the bridge was visible just below the surface. It also made Merlin realize how much lighter it was outside. 

Dawn was coming. 

The tomb was buried. 

They were safe. 

He wished his body had gotten that particular message. He couldn't stop shivering, and curled up on the ground, wishing it would stop. 

“Can we go home, now?” he said, not caring if he sounded like a child. Someone covered him with their cloak.

“Yeah, Merlin,” Gwaine said. “We can go home.”

Merlin was loaded onto a horse, Gwaine settling behind him, and Arthur on another in front of Leon. They left in no great hurry – their exhaustion wouldn't let them – but the very moment they were across the bridge Merlin could practically feel the collective exhales and unclenched muscles of relief. Merlin glanced back around Gwaine, he didn't know why; he preferred seeing the buried entrance to the tomb shrink away out of sight, he supposed.

He saw figures instead, shrouded in shadow, some tall, some small, clustered tight in front of the doorway and hiding it from sight. When Merlin looked at them, they bowed as one.

 _Thank you_.

And vanished. 

TBC...


	7. Chapter 7

There were bad dreams, as there would be, because you don't survive something so horrible and seemingly impossible without it echoing like manic laughter through the unconscious mind. It really was like with the Lamia all over again, even with it being Arthur the one to go through with his sinister promises of bodily harm instead of the knights, even if it was a faceless man reaching for Merlin instead of a reptilian monster. It was still the same scenario of failure after failure, compounded by bloodied bodies littering the floor and Merlin's blood being cupped in the hands of his king. 

Merlin still woke with a gasp and a racing heart that made it difficult to breathe, as though a weight were pressing on his chest. He coughed both harshly and wetly into his fist when his lungs couldn't take it anymore. The coughing hurt, but it at least came with the benefit of reminding him how to breathe again. 

There was a reason dark magic was not to be trifled with, Gaius had said, besides the obvious consequences Merlin knew too well from years of dealing with the likes of Morgana, Morgause and other magic users with a grievance. But then there were the consequences that had little to do with intended outcomes and more to do with “side effects.” Some dark magics, Gaius said, were like filling a room full of smoke. You coughed and spluttered but as long as you managed to escape the room as soon as possible then the effects were brief. Breathe in the smoke for too long and the effects would be far more lasting. 

It was the same with magic. The dark magic had been like smoke to Merlin's sensitivity, gradually weakening him with its filth and leaving him susceptible to all sorts of ailments. What had been a persistently dry cough had morphed into an actual illness. Nothing severe, Gaius had promised, but until it cleared up Gaius was quite insistent that Merlin rest for as much as possible. The dark magic may not have been a physical thing, but when it came to Merlin – being the magical creature that he was – it might as well have been, and he would need time before he was able to completely overcome the aftermath. 

Magic may have been a tool, but even tools could be tainted. Too bad a tainted tool was merely weak and useless. Tainted magic tried to kill you without even trying. 

Merlin gave up on any more attempts at sleep for the time being and hauled his aching body out of bed. Gaius wouldn't be happy, but it was almost morning, anyway, so no point in struggling in futility against something that wasn't going to change for days yet. They had only arrived home the day before, and Merlin had been asleep for most of it – except when he wasn't, when the dreams had become so vivid he couldn't tell them from reality, and he had sat awake in between, shaking and gasping while Gaius soothed him with reminders that they had all come home, safe and alive. 

Except Merlin had yet to see anyone else from their party, not the knights, not Arthur. Resting, Gaius had said – especially Arthur who was suffering from a concussion.

Merlin entered the small chamber to see porridge bubbling in the pot on the hearth and Gaius no where to be seen. Merlin must not have gotten up as early as he thought. He made himself breakfast – being sure not to cough on it – and ate alone and in silence. 

It made him uncomfortable, the silence, a part of him waiting for whispers to tickle his ear and fill his head full of dire portents. 

Which prompted him to leave before he had a chance to actually eat. He didn't know why nor did he seem to care, just as long as he was somewhere, anywhere, with plenty of noise and that didn't send shiver after shiver down his spine. 

Merlin opened the door and plowed forward. He collided with a wall of red cloth, and he would have stumbled back if it weren't for the iron grip cinching around both arms. Merlin immediately tried to pull away only for the grip to pull back, and panic ripped through him as though it had been ready and waiting, knowing that this would happen, certain that the nightmare wasn't over. Merlin struggled against the hold, pushing at the body that wouldn't let him go.

“Merlin! Merlin, calm down! Will you calm down!”

Merlin did, but not because he'd been ordered. He was overcome by wretched coughs, pulling at his rib muscles, robbing him of air and giving his attacker time to guide him to the nearest chair and sit him down. When the coughs passed, Merlin looked up and blinked through bleary eyes at Arthur – pale, concerned Arthur, displeased, a little shocked and not remotely sinister. 

“All right, now?” he asked, trying to be stern but looking more than ready to hunt down Gaius right this second whether or not Merlin really was fine. 

“I'll live,” Merlin said. He winced at how much his voice sounded like he had gargled sand. 

Arthur pursed his lips, nodded, and didn't buy a word of it. “Yes. Right. And you're shaking like a leaf because it's a bit nippy in here.”

Merlin glared at him. “Actually, it is a bit nippy in here, if you must know. Now did you need something or do you simply enjoy blocking doorways and startling their occupants?”

“A headache remedy. My head hurts,” Arthur said airly.

Now it was Merlin's turn to nod his head and not buy a word of it. “Yes, I see. So I'm assuming Gaius hasn't been by your chambers yet on his rounds which is odd since you are always the first he visits when you're in need of medication. He must have forgotten and, as usual, your impatience got the better of you.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, then he winced and sighed. “Merlin, I am concussed, my head is killing me and I'm in no mood for your witless prattle. Is there headache medicine or not?”

“Gaius took it with him to give to you,” Merlin said. He narrowed his eyes. “Arthur, why are you really here?”

Arthur shrugged. “I was bored, felt like walking about.” He winced again.

“The quiet get to you as well?” Merlin said.

“ Have no idea what you're talking about,” Arthur said, looking anywhere but at Merlin.

Merlin, unlike Arthur with his headache, had the means and luxury to roll his eyes. It was foolish to expect Arthur to admit to anything trifling and unmanly as hating the quiet and staying awake because of bad dreams, so Merlin knew better than to keep trying. He gestured behind him instead. 

“Hungry?”

And then they were sitting together, Arthur across from Merlin, stirring at his bowl of porridge (because he would have already had breakfast) while Merlin wolfed down his.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, then cleared his throat, which meant he was about so say something that was clearly uncomfortable and that he normally wouldn't say in a million years if you could help it. “I wanted to... to _apologize_ \--”

Ah, the truth at last. Because Merlin knew Arthur, knew well his stubborn resolve and so knew it would have taken more than silence and bad dreams to send Arthur Merlin's way. 

Merlin shook his head and said around a mouthful of porridge. “Don't.”

Arthur blinked, bewildered. “Don't?”

“Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault. Possessed by an evil sorcerer king, remember? And you did fight against him – quite impressively, I might add, or I'd be dead. We'd all be dead. So don't torture yourself over what you have no reason to feel guilty for.”

But Arthur, being Arthur, couldn't let it go. “I had us cut through the Valley of the Fallen Kings.”

“You _always_ have us cut through the Valley.”

“Exactly! And this makes, what, twice, three times it's ended in disaster?”

“Yes,” Merlin said dryly. “Because it's only when we're in the Valley that bad things happen. _Never_ anywhere else – the main road, the side road, all the roads to our various neighbors. Nothing bad ever happens on them. Oh, wait, yes, I do believe bad stuff does happen on them, like all those bandit attacks and magical beasts and, oh, remember that witch last year that we thought turned Gwaine into a toad but had them switch places instead and we were all in a panic when your horse squashed the toad--”

Arthur huffed a breath and rested what was obviously an extra-aching head in his hand. “Yes, all right, I get it. Stop feeling guilty.”

“Yes, stop feeling guilty. You didn't do wrong by us, Arthur. It was simply one of those... _strange_ , horrible, spontaneous, very bad things that like to happen to us from time to time.”

Arthur smiled at him. Mission accomplished, at least where misplaced guilt was concerned. 

“And how are you really, Merlin?” Arthur asked.

Merlin reared his head back in mild indignation. “I told you--”

“Yes, you'll live. Sorry but that doesn't count for an answer. You look terrible.”

“I have a cold, I _feel_ terrible.”

“How's your... um...” Arthur gestured vaguely. “Your back and shoulder. And... er... face.”

Merlin rolled his shoulders gingerly, feeling the pull of his stitched skin. The bruises on his face were unpleasant but nothing he couldn't live with. “A bit uncomfortable, but it wasn't all that bad. I told you you fought impressively or it would have been a lot worse, believe me. And _don't_ feel guilty about that, either. Your head?”

“I'm not feeling as forgiving,” Arthur said with a scowl, rubbing the side of his skull. “Good thing I don't recall who hit me.”

Merlin smiled back. 

~oOo~

There was no banquet. It had only been two days since the incident at the Valley and Gaius was stern and unyielding in his insistence that the king, his knights and his manservant continue to rest and endure as little excitement as possible. 

Arthur thought he was being overzealous. It wasn't as though one did much at a banquet other than sit, talk and eat. And it wasn't as though Merlin were going to be there, still neck-deep in his cold as he was, his already questionable grace made twice as questionable when he was ill. 

But were Arthur to be honest with himself, the thought of sitting and talking even while eating – among lords and ladies who would have badgered Arthur and his knights for the tale of what had happened in the Valley of the Fallen Kings – had been about as appealing as falling asleep and dreaming instantly of said incident. It would have been nothing but an amusing story to them, a ghost tale punctuated by gasps at the appropriate moments, a bit of gossip to spread around the kingdom, disregarding it as the disgusting nightmare that it was.

This was not a tale Arthur wished to tell any time soon. He wondered if that made him weak. Gwen promised that it made him human. What would make him weak was thinking himself incapable of being affected. 

She was right, as she always was. He was affected. They were all affected – king and knights and manservant. He saw it in Gwaine's unusual silence, Leon's wary looks, Elyan's stiff posture, the way Percival would attack the practice targets without mercy, and in the way Merlin flinched at every shadow, every movement. They all had their nightmares, their worries, their unfounded guilt. They weren't alone in this. 

Which gave Arthur an idea. 

He had the cooks prepare half the food intended for the banquet, had the servants finish cleaning the banquet hall and set all but one of the tables against the wall, out of the way. He also had all the windows opened and the festive banners and garlands meant for the banquet hung in place. He then gathered his knights and Merlin. 

“What's this, then?” Gwaine asked, intrigued and already eying the platters of food set out on the single table. 

“A celebration,” Arthur said.

“For what?” Percival asked.

Arthur shrugged. “Do we really need a reason? No, you too, Merlin. Sit. No one's serving us today.”

“We're celebrating the fact that we're still alive, aren't we?” Merlin said, taking a seat.

Gwaine chuffed. “If we celebrated every time we lived through some calamity we'd be as fat as pigs.”

“I wouldn't argue having a banquet as often as possible,” Percival said. He was already filling his plate and looking more bright-eyed than he had in days. 

Merlin added with a smile as he filled his own plate, “I'm not complaining either.”

They all filled their plates, all smiling, all far more relaxed than they had been in days. Merlin was right, though. Arthur couldn't really say it was anything but a celebration of being alive – being alive every single blasted day.

The End


End file.
